Up before dawn on this gray, damp day named for a saint, a day that brings to mind the Hallmark-enforced tokens of affection, a gangland massacre in old Chicago, and memories of being eight years old, exchanging colorful cards and tiny emblazoned sugar hearts with other children under the eye of a teacher who seemed ancient to me then, though I doubt she was fifty.I remember a girl in my third grade class whom no one liked. Her name was Victoria White, and we called her Vicky White. Never "Vicky," but Vicky White, like one word. Like a title, a label, a classification.
Vicky had a brother in the second grade, named Teddy. Everyone called him Teddy White. How consistent are little minds, no? Sometimes I would play with Teddy White at recess. He was, like his sister, very pale and very quiet.
Vicky White came from a family almost as poor as mine, but she and her brother were always neatly attired and freshly combed. I remember that she wore black skirts and white blouses and black dress shoes. And her winter coat was dark gray wool with black buttons.
Because of her poverty and her quiet ways, Vicky White was shunned by the other girls. Being a boy, and like all boys, believing that girls ranked somewhere below lepers on the social scale, I didn't have much to do with her. But I was aware of her place in the cruel world of schoolchildren, and I watched her daily from my own silent distance.
On Valentine's Day in third grade, we made "mailboxes" from brown paper lunch sacks, decorating them with hearts and cupids, and then hung them with Scotch tape from the edges of our lift-top desks. After lunchtime, we moved freely through the classroom, delivering Valentines to classmates. And I watched Vicky White drop little envelopes in every single classmate's bag. And I watched almost every single classmate pass Vicky White's desk without stopping or dropping. I had secreted a Valentine for her in my arithmetic book, for reasons I still cannot determine, more than forty years later. I retrieved the card from my book, stood up, and went to Vicky White's desk. She was sitting with her eyes down, aware of her solitude. I dropped the card into her "mailbox." She never acknowledged my gesture, and the mean little part of my heart resented her for not recognizing how heroic and selfless I had been.
That same day, on the way home, I passed Mrs. Wilson's boarding house. Mrs. Wilson was a family friend, an elderly lady for whom I had great affection. All of her boarders were gentlemen, most of them elderly themselves. One of them was my favorite, a tall, emaciated stick-insect of a fellow named Mr. Crutchfield. He bore a striking resemblance to the actor Burt Mustin. On this particular Valentines Day, just after the Tet Offensive in the Vietnam War where the Marines battled a grim, house-to-house battle for the Citadel in Hue City, I climbed the steps to the old gray house and knocked. Mrs. Wilson came to the door and, after I had announced my business, let me in with her constant smile. I found Mr. Crutchfield in the front parlor, listening to the radio. I handed him a small envelope, which he received with raised eyebrows and no other reaction. He opened it and pulled out the card. On it, a smiling red canine held a large heart in his paws. The words on the card read, "Doggone it, be my Valentine!" Mr. Crutchfield looked at the card for a long time. He put it back into the envelope, slid it into his shirt pocket, and touched my arm with his raspy old hand. "Thank you, boy," he said.
Mr. Crutchfield died when I was about 13 years old, of natural causes. Vicky White died when I was serving in the Marine Corps; she had a brain tumor, and she would have been about 22 years old.
I didn't expect these memories to be with me this morning when I crept out of bed. But they are, like all my past, locked inside a faraway place I sometimes forget is even there. I never know when they will cross the distance and approach me.
***
One of the peculiar pleasures I've had recently is being greeted each evening by our barn cats, Frito and Biscuit. When I pull into the driveway and back old Purps into her place, I look back over my shoulder, and there are two yellow feline heads poking out of the slats in the back deck guardrail. They come to greet me, meowing and switching their tails. When I enter the side door, they run around to the deck to await The Coming of Groceries. I enjoy their wordless attention, and they enjoy my Cat Dinner ($2.8o for a five-pound bag at Food City). It's a symbiotic relationship.
While I detest the greeting card companies and their brusque manipulation of peoples' emotions and dollars, I will confess that I do always try to show MeeMaw some special attention on each February 14th. Today, I gave her yellow roses (because she is my Texas rose) and a poem I composed for her over the past few weeks. She cried when she received them this morning, and I have to say that her reaction is my reward. Her tears of happiness are the only tears that don't tear my very heart out.
Happy Valentine's Day, MeeMaw. I love you more than anyone in this old world.
Possum Cough is very quiet today. I pray that it is quiet and happy where each of you are, my dear ones.
